


The Skies Will Be Blue (For All My Life)

by LeapOfFaith1489



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: All you need is love - The Beatles, Angst, Choices, Crowley isn't Raphael, Crowley's wings were always black, Drunken Stargazing, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, First Kiss, First Time, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), God has been sending signals all along but Aziraphale is just too dense, Implied Sexual Content, Just an ordinary guy from the Design Department, Love Confessions, M/M, Mona Lisa sketch, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Sorry that's my HeadCanon, Starmaker Crowley, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), They liked each other in Heaven, To Love Somebody - The Bee Gees, What if Aziraphale never said "You go too fast"?, happy together - the turtles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22878793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapOfFaith1489/pseuds/LeapOfFaith1489
Summary: There are moments – splits of seconds really; there are choices we have to make within their span.It's 1967. Aziraphale sits in the Bentley with Crowley, hands him a thermos full of Holy Water.|"I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go."What if the Angel said "Yes"? What would have happened, then?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 139





	The Skies Will Be Blue (For All My Life)

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mention of suicidal thoughts.
> 
> I've had this story in mind for a while now, the inspiration struck me after I've seen an amazing art of Aziraphale kissing a 1967-style Crowley... the little cogs in my head started grinding and grinding. I'll leave here the artist's tumblr, maybe consider supporting him on patreon, his work is amazing! http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com
> 
> The scenes in this strange little oneshot go backwards in time, I hope the structure is not too confusing. The time frames to drive from Soho to the South Downs might be a bit too tight, but I supposed Crowley would drive at manic speed and maybe use a minor demonic miracle for fear Aziraphale would change his mind ^^
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! There's angst, but there's also hope.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely @lestelle (what would I do without you?)

**The Skies Will Be Blue**

**(For All My Life)**

_Mayfair, 1967_

_4:48 am_

_It could have ended up like this._

With the angel lying on his back, wrist abandoned on his damp forehead, gazing at the dark grey ceiling of a room that still smells like a foreign, liminal place. He’s never been here before. Charcoal blankets tangle around his thighs, grab at his calves with the sweet bite of silk, hold his ankles prisoners. It’s a decadent kind of tyranny, it holds you down with a caress.

_Yes, the more he thinks about it, the clearer the scene becomes. If Aziraphale had answered just one question differently, earlier that night inside Crowley’s Bentley, the events could have unfolded precisely like this._

With the demon curled up by the angel’s side, seemingly asleep. His face at peace, except for that small, perennial crease carved between his eyebrows. This is the look of someone who has wasted too much time screaming internally, crying inwards, raging across the tight walls of his ribcage. He wants to smooth it under his thumb, feel it recede under his touch, but doesn’t dare break the strange spell of silence and stillness that lingers on them.

Aziraphale glances at the sprawl of dark-red hair on the cushion next to his own, and despite the strangeness of the place, the alien feeling sitting on his chest and the doubts still hammering against his temples, he smiles.

Undone as it is, Crowley’s hair makes him think of burning galaxies _,_ the ones this Principality never really had the chance to see up close. It's a messy tangle, mind you, but every lock is knotted with the moans Aziraphale has whispered against it. Chaotic. Heartbreakingly beautiful. He will never tire of the sight, the same way humans never tire of stars.

If he tilts his face just a bit, he can still take in the scent of their love-making, the sweat and the wordless confessions, the climax, the crushing release - the traces of which have been miracled away right _after._ And yet, he can still feel them. They have left a burning path on his chest, on his tongue, against his teeth.

Nothing will ever taste the same, from tonight on. Neither food, nor life.

The particles of Aziraphale’s flesh are still rearranging around the ruins that this earthquake's left behind. Certainties, truths and barricades, all smashed to pieces so small he can hardly recognise them.

_Wait, what is this debris?_

_The fear to let my feelings show?_

_Oh, look, that chipped thing used to be my loyalty to Heaven._

_And this dust, this dust right here looks like that nasty little voice that told me you couldn’t reciprocate, that you would only use me, that I’d be a fool to let you in._

Well, now they’ve let each other in, in all the meanings one can attribute to the word; and Aziraphale knows it’s a terribly cheeky innuendo, but he can’t help smirking at the thought. They finally, _finally_ took the leap, and the best part is: the world hasn’t ended for it. On the contrary, it feels like it's just begun. Tonight, from this bed, the horizon of Eternity has shifted shape.

Aziraphale can feel his very core shifting shape, too, and this scares him out of his wits. What he had always called _want_ is spelling, now, another name. A louder name, far more ruthless and far more fragile and so gorgeous that the angel doesn’t really feel he deserves to say it. It tastes dangerously like a dream come true.

Crowley isn’t really asleep, of course. Aziraphale can tell without even looking. It’s clear as day that, underneath the apparent stillness, Crowley is tuned in to his companion’s every move. Probably, he’s ready to say something self-deprecating and soul-shattering at the first sign of discomfort he perceives from the angel currently sharing his bed. All it would take is a knitted eyebrow. A nervous shifting of limbs.

 _Yeah, you’re right, this was a mistake. Just a moment of madness, eh, angel? No worries, my bad, we can go back to how we were before, ‘s not like I care after all_.

But Aziraphale’s heart beats slowly, his eyelids fall and rise, and in that brief space of darkness the world hasn’t changed. He won’t bolt. Won’t deny what just happened. He has no intention of running away.

They’ve been lying like this for a while, now, with their fingers entwined. Their thumbs never cease to draw patterns against one another, writing a silent story, delegating all the things that sound can’t express to touch, and touch alone.

“What’s the opposite of a lead balloon?”

It comes out lightly from the angel's throat. Crowley growls in mild amusement.

“ _What?”_

“A lead balloon. That’s the first thing you told me when you approached me on the walls of the Garden. _This went down like a lead balloon,_ you said. I believe you were referring to...”

"I remember, angel."

"You said you didn’t."

"I say many things."

Aziraphale frowns, but decides to let this one go.

“Well, then you should be able to figure out an opposing metaphor. Go on, dear, use your imagination."

Crowley clicks his lips: one eye cracks open, letting a slit of gold shine through.

“Something light, I think. And squared.”

“You mean like, an aluminium cube?”

“Yeah. Yeah, why not. I ‘spose it could do.” Crowley cocks one eyebrow. His eyes are both fully open, now: some glints of yellow linger in the sclera, his glance looks unfocused as if he were still lost in the bliss they’ve shared. “Are you about to tell me that _this went down like an aluminium cube?_ ‘cause if you are, I warn you, I’m gonna kick you out of the blessed bed.”

The demon is lying, of course. His fingers hold fiercely onto Aziraphale’s, anchoring him to the mattress and the moment. They both laugh, but it’s a strangled sound.

There’s a stone on the angel’s heart. It’s not about Heaven, or Hell; it’s not about doing right or wrong. Aziraphale knew, the moment he appeared inside the Bentley earlier this night, what he was doing, and why. It has taken a lot to get to this. More precisely, it has taken a century and a thermos full of the most destructive substance in the universe, the only thing that can rip Crowley out of existence as if he was never there in first place.

To woo the object of their affection, other men-shaped beings would bring them flowers.

Aziraphale sighs deeply, letting his face sink in the pillow. This is a price he will never stop paying, in nightmares, in failing breaths, in visions of doom that will freeze his bones every time he closes his eyes. Inside every spot of darkness, Aziraphale will keep seeing the tartan thermos spilling on Crowley’s skin, and gnawing at him, burning his demonic essence to ashes, leaving no hope for him to return.

No Crowley. _Forever._

He thought he knew the weight of eternity, but he didn’t. Not until he considered what it would be spending it without his demon.

Strange how one can understand some words only after feeling their slap.

The thermos is sitting now in a safe, behind a beautiful sketch of the Mona Lisa –oh, good story, that one: Aziraphale had retrieved it for Crowley a couple of decades ago, plunging into the heart of war-ridden Italy and nearly discorporating himself in the process– but this is a bitter-sweet memory, for another bitter-sweet time.

Now, what matters is that, behind the Mona Lisa, there’s a box that weighs several hundred pounds, and inside those metal walls lies the water he’s blessed with his own Grace. Aziraphale feels the holiness of it, reaching for him from three rooms away. It prickles at his skin like a thousand needles.

Only when he touches Crowley’s face, the prickling stops.

The demon all but purrs under his touch, tilting his head to leave a kiss on Aziraphale’s wrist. If one could discorporate of happiness, this angel would have been done for right now. And yet he is going to ruin it now, isn’t he?

Because he has to know. 

“Dearest. What are you going to do with it?”

Crowley tenses.

 _Of course he does: he thinks you don’t trust him, why on Earth did you have to go and say something like_ that _right now? This is hardly pillow-talk material. Oh, bother! Why can’t you ever keep quiet…_

“Told you, angel. It’s not a suicide pill. Just insurance.”

There’s weariness in the demon’s voice. There’s also an unbearable tenderness that Aziraphale really doesn’t deserve. Because now he can’t just let it go. He always finishes what he starts, no matter how disastrous the consequences.

“And by insurance,” the angel clears his voice, forces the tone to stay light. It sounds strangled and pathetic instead. “By insurance, you mean…”

“I want to wipe out every atom of any fucking demon who tries to come after you. Or me. Well, us in general.” Crowley’s face twists. His hand has gone limp in Aziraphale’s, and his gaze now dives onto the sheets as if studying the exquisite weaving. “Wait, can you use _us_ in general? It sounds wrong, ‘cause there’s not actually anything like a general _I_ , am I right? So there shouldn’t be any general _us_ either. No, really, scrap that. Too bloody unique to be general, the two of us.”

Dearheart, he is rambling like the day he asked him for the holy water, and Aziraphale’s heart is so full it could burst.

“Yes, darling. We _are_ rather unique, I am afraid.”

Aziraphale rolls on the side, pushing his forehead against the demon’s. Crowley’s breath is so sweet on his lips, he has to close his eyes to savour it.

“Just so you know, I really don’t give two figs about other demons. Do what you like with their atoms, I’m sure they’ve deserved it anyways.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I wouldn’t. Not on this.”

“Hold on a second. Where’s my lecture on morality? _But Crowley, killing is_ wrong _! It doesn’t make the tinsiest-tiniest difference if we are speaking about a decaying and unattractive demon chasing you with his ornate pitchfork…”_

Aziraphale snorts, half a scoff and half a laughter. Dear God, what an appalling impression. Surely he sounds nothing like _that_.

Setting his eyes into Crowley’s, he holds the demon’s face in his hands.

“I frankly doubt that your lot would run around brandishing anything as sophisticated as an ornate pitchfork. Last time I checked, clubs and pokers were still the weapons of choice.”

Crowley’s eyes widen, the black slit flicking like a startled animal’s would. His lips are parted in surprise. Aziraphale wants to bite them, suck their quiver into his mouth.

“For the love of G… Aziraphale. You can’t be serious.”

“Crowley, dearest, listen to me. You could flood Hell with holy water if you liked, I’d be happy to bless a whole ocean for you. Just… be careful, dearheart, please. Don’t let a single drop touch you, ever. On purpose or otherwise.”

“I told you…”

“I made that, do you understand?” Aziraphale’s fingers dive harder in Crowley’s skin; not enough to hurt the demon, but so intensely that he could scrape his fingerprint off those sharp cheekbones, and leave a trail of blood behind. “With my own hands. With _my Grace_.”

The drops of his golden essence had fallen in the water, burning it white before dissolving. Every second it took him to change a harmless liquid, bringer of life to terrestrial creatures, into a deadly poison for the being he loves the most, he’d felt like bleeding out.

“I couldn’t, Crowley. If you happened to … I just couldn’t, truly...”

One hundred and five years ago, in St James’s Park, Aziraphale has learned how it feels to have the world swept from under one’s feet. Every time Earth shook before – drowned by the Flood, shattered by eruptions, whipped by a plague here and a war there - the angel has never lost his footing, and maybe he prided himself, if just a little, on his ability to keep emotions in check. Yet his knees have almost given out once he found himself contemplating the idea of an eternity without Crowley. He had all those years to think, and the only conclusion he has reached is that Hellfire is far more difficult to obtain.

But he will, if it comes to this.

He will. 

The demon’s arms scoop him up in an embrace before Aziraphale is even aware that there are tears streaming down his own face. It’s alright, Crowley kisses them away one by one, his steadfast heartbeat drains them at the source. They’re together, right now. A very unique _us,_ tangled in limbs, and skin, and several other wordless ways of saying _don’t you ever let me go._

“I won’t use it on myself, angel. Ever, I promise.”

“Swear it.”

Aziraphale’s voice sounds hoarse and foreign to his ears.

Now it’s Crowley’s elegant fingers that dig into the angel’s cheeks. Eyes like burning suns sear a vow directly into Aziraphale’s essence.

“By my real name. My old forgotten name. I swear.”

There are depths he never saw before in Crowley’s eyes. Traces of a divine light that should have been forgotten, but weren’t. They’re still there, intact and perfect. Aziraphale remembers the Nine Spheres, the suffused light, the time before Time itself. Shards of a lifetime before. Wooden swords. A training ground. A stranger sitting outside its gates.

And from the abyss of his memory, a distant song emerges, with the sweet promise it carried.

_***_

_But how, how would they ever get there? Something should have happened before these guarded beings could let go so completely, despite the consequences waiting for them from Above and Below. At least a glance, a word, a signal of some kind. A wrecking ball to shatter the long-standing ruins of Aziraphale’s denial._

_Maybe, it would have happened like this._

_***_

_Crowley’s apartment  
Mayfair, earlier that night_

_1:45 am_

Aziraphale knows the statue.

The shape is burned behind his eyelids, a cutout of shadows against the candlelight of a memory. He definitely has seen it before; years, no, decades ago.

Is it a dove? An eagle? It doesn’t really matter.

What matters, is that a long time ago the statue’s wings kept the two of them safe once the bomb had dropped on the church. What was the place called? He can’t remember, must have been somewhere in Soho though. This memory has burned edges, but it’s still alright at its core, still readable and neat enough to be revisited even if some of the details are lost.

He is certain of the year: 1941, the Blitz. Could he ever forget? That night brought him and Crowley back together after eighty years of pretending they were fine without the other. There had been a disastrous double-crossing, an unexpected rescue. There had been a couple of well-placed miracles and a third, smaller one – unexpected, demonic, with no right to be. The bomb had taken a few seconds to demolish the building, but the explosion in Aziraphale’s heart had gone on far longer: even now, as he looks at the statue, the angel can see the stone wings go up in flames.

Aziraphale swallows as he touches the blackened edges of the feathers.

What is the statue doing here, in the dim-lit corridor of Crowley’s apartment?

What is there for it to protect?

Aziraphale knows the answer, deep inside.

There’s that exact memory to protect. It’s a memento, a milestone signaling the precious moment a demon had done something perfectly unselfish, and an angel had learned what selfish love was all about. A moment that is like a diamond born from collision, because two lines supposed to run on parallel tracks had changed their course and crashed into one another instead.

Aziraphale stands at the brink of another impact, tonight. He sees it coming towards him in slow motion –and he won’t move away. He can’t.

He is _longing_ for this, with every part of his being.

The angel bites the inside of his cheek, as the pitter-patter of Crowley’s feet makes him announced from the next room, covering the soft music that comes from the radio. Aziraphale breathes in deeply, composes himself just in time; when Crowley appears on the threshold, he is fairly in control of his emotions. At least, on the outside. It’s all that matters.

“Here. Single malt, 1935. ‘twas a good year for scotch if you ask me.”

The demon has two glasses in his hands, the liquid looks dark-amber and promising. It would almost seem like a normal night-cap at the bookshop, if it weren’t for the fact that they are in Crowley’s apartment. They have just shared memories under the clearest night-sky Aziraphale can remember since dining with Van Gogh and Gaugin in Arles. The angel’s lips are still swollen from the promises a demon’s mouth has sewn onto them under those stars, less than a couple of hours ago. 

“Something wrong?” asks Crowley, ever perceptive. The glasses tinkle in his grip.

Aziraphale is still clutching at the thermos of holy water, which beats like a second heart against his chest.

“Nothing, dear. It’s just that… this statue, see? I was thinking… it looks awfully familiar, don’t you think?”

Crowley gives him a small shrug. “Not sure what you mean.” He offers one glass to the angel, who wets his lips, then takes a deeper mouthful. The alcohol burns nicely against his palate, roars along his throat. Crowley doesn’t drink. He looks, instead, at the bobbing of the angel’s throat, and Aziraphale feels his cheeks burn.

Damn. He was too eager on the drink. He’s giving Crowley the wrong impression, as if he needed liquid courage to proceed, and now it’s too late to take the stupid gesture away. He leaves the glass on the first surface he can find, deeply embarrassed.

“Look,” the demon starts, serious and yet slightly feeble, “If you have changed your mind, that’s fine. I understand.”

“What?” Aziraphale chokes on the word. He remembers the conversation they just had on the hill, and all the shattering, beautiful things that have followed. The touch of Crowley’s tongue, the way it has parted his lips, exploring, gentle, always asking for permission. As if there was anything Aziraphale would refuse him, tonight. “No, no darling, I haven’t. Not at all.”

“So… what’s the matter?”

Is he really asking _that?_ Does he have any sense of self-preservation at all?

Aziraphale shows Crowley the thermos, letting it bounce slightly between his hands.

“Oh.” Crowley’s face regains a bit of colour. “That. Almost forgot.”

The demon leaves his glass, too, and steps forward as if to take the themos from Aziraphale. The angel flinches. The sudden movement leaves them both startled.

Aziraphale forces himself to blurt out:

“Let me put it away for you. Please.”

“You’re not gonna stash it away and take it home with you when I’m not looking, are you?”

“Crowley, I’ve made my decision. It might have taken me a whole century to finally see reason, but I can assure you…”

The demon’s fingers clutch his shoulder, briefly. A reassuring touch that stirs a whole new set of emotions in Aziraphale. The barrier of clothes between them brands his skin, and he is sure there will be a Crowley-shaped burn tomorrow, right there.

“It’s ok, angel. Just a joke. Relax, will you?”

The touch (featherlike, barely even there) has gone. But it keeps burning, as Crowley tunes his back and walks down the dark corridor. He stops, looks at Aziraphale.

“Are you coming?”

The angel finds the strength to nod, as he follows a demon into the heart of his lair. In his hands, he holds the means to destroy this foul fiend, and this knowledge should make him feel powerful and safe. Instead, he is overwhelmed. Excited. Utterly terrified. This is a fight Aziraphale has already lost.

When he enters Crowley’s office, the angel feels like he is stepping into a very private place. Verdant plants sit at the corners, and all in all it seems brighter here than it was in the living room. The style is essential, the space perfectly tidy and clean, but not as empty as the rest of the flat. Certainly more personal. Well used.

Beyond a massive desk and an honestly over-the-top throne-like chair, Aziraphale can see a single painting on the wall. It’s a minimalist, wide sketch in dark red sanguine, its traits so well defined that the face almost pops out of the canvas. It’s a woman, smiling mysteriously at the bystanders, with a twinkle in her eye and a secret hidden in the fold of her lips.

Tears almost prickle Aziraphale’s eyes at the sight.

“Oh. I remembered she was beautiful, but I have to admit reality surpasses the memory.”

Crowley stands by his side, hands shuffled in his tight jeans pockets. “We used to call her La Bella Lisa. Remember?”

“I could never forget.”

Of course he couldn’t. That is the story of another miraculous rescue, you see.

In 1944, Italy was torn apart by a bloody civil war. Aziraphale was there, undercover as a priest in a lovely village at the slope of the Appennini mountains. He was secretly trying to retrieve the Mona Lisa’s early sketch, an original Leonardo that Crowley had to leave behind when the Dominicans had stuck their noses a bit too closely in the Florentine politics. No matter how many knots formed in the angel’s stomach at the thought of Crowley and Leonardo drinking together - two sparkling wits, two beautiful figures… they’d probably be a great match for each other’s intellect, and sensitive enough to see the other’s soul… just so horribly, horribly _perfect_ for one another–, Aziraphale had resolved to get the lost souvenir back. At the time, he couldn’t bring himself to give his friend the holy water, not yet: still, Crowley had saved his books. The angel wanted to do something for him. Something equally beautiful, that would make him happy.

As always, the road to discorporation is paved with the angel’s best intentions.

The occupying German army and the local collaborators didn’t like priests in general, and they soon found themselves despising one that, with a real last-minute miracle, had made half of the population disappear right before the Gestapo could show up to massacre them, in retaliation for a partisan attack. The villagers had been transmigrated safely into the tunnels under the hills, but Aziraphale decided it would have been better for him to stay behind as bait. Weakened by the massive amount of strength he had used to make three hundred people disappear at the same time, he hadn’t had enough power to fight his assailants back.

The soldiers took him in for interrogation – which turned out to be a polite way of saying they wanted to crush every single angelic bone under their boots and canes. And they had broken quite a few already, when a man in the Gestapo uniform entered the room, hat low on his eyes, red hair barely visible above the black collar. He calmly grabbed a chair, sat backwards on it, and snapped his fingers.

It didn’t end well for the soldiers. In Crowley’s defence, though: when he left them with their guns all pointed at each other, he’d given them a _choice_. They didn’t have to pull the trigger at all.

It’s always about choices, with Crowley.

Tonight is about choices, too.

Aziraphale steps out of the memory when the demon walks towards the Bella Lisa sketch. Crowley drags the ornate chair towards the wall, stands on it, and moves the painting away, to reveal the safe hiding behind it.

“Very clever hiding place!” The angel claps in admiration. “Her curse is going to protect the holy water from theft. Smart move, my dear.”

The story of the curse is, well, one for another time. Suffices to say, unlike her more famous sister, Bella Lisa tended to make people forget of her existence, which had made finding her back in 1944 awfully complicated and painstakingly difficult.

Aziraphale inhales deeply. He wonders if he’ll forget, too. It depends on Crowley and how much he trusts him with this knowledge.

The demon steps off the throne, showing Aziraphale the safe. It is still locked.

“I presume you want to do the honours.”

Aziraphale looks at him, quizzically.

“How am I supposed to…”

“Four numbers. Sum’s eight, if you must know.”

“That’s ridiculous, Crowley. I need at least another clue!”

“Alright. Palindrome date, quite important to me. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

The angel holds his breath. He unties his laces and slips off his shoes, slightly self-conscious in his tartan socks. When he climbs on the throne, the velvety cushion gives in under his weight. With one hand, he still keeps the thermos against his chest. With the other, he turns the dial, composing the only numbers he can think of.

His eyes blur with tears when the door unlocks.

Aziraphale leaves the thermos right in the middle of the safe, with all the reverence it is due.

The heavy door closes with a click. The angel scrambles the dial once again, before stepping off the chair.

“So…” he swallows. He finds himself unable to look at Crowley, but he’s still aware of the tapping of the demon’s snake boots on the floor, of his fidgeting around the belt-loops. “4004. As in… 4004 BC?”

“Uh-yeah.”

The year when time had started. The beginning of human history, and of their stationing in the Garden. Aziraphale barely represses the delicious shiver that still manages to run across his whole spine.

“You… Ah… Are really fond of Earth.”

Crowley’s eyes go wide, all golden in the dim light.

“Sod Earth,” he says, his voice swollen with something Aziraphale is afraid to name. “4004 BC is when you spoke to me for the first time.”

And like that, the room disappears.

There’s no fancy carpet under the sole of Aziraphale’s tartan-clad feet. There are no walls around them as the floor slips forward, and if it looks otherwise, well, it’s a meaningless accident of time and space. All that’s real is the heat of their bodies as they clash together, the feel of Crowley’s shoulders in Aziraphale’s embrace, the way the demon’s hands grab at the fabric on the angel’s back, pulling him in as their mouths meet in a crushing kiss.

No diamonds are made, tonight. The force that brought the angel and the demon together is far too strong for that.

They are twin stars colliding, making the universe quiver when their clothes start scattering first around the room, then along the corridor, littering their way towards the bedroom.

 _“So happy together”,_ the radio softly hums.

So happy, indeed.

A galaxy of rambling suns and burning stars will be born from this clash; and much later, when the angel and the demon finally explode together, a whole new world will begin. 

***

_But there must have been a_ before _. Before the apartment, and La Bella Lisa, and four numbers that encapsulate a whole love letter. There must have been a first kiss, remember, the angel’s lips were already swollen and acquainted with the demon’s touch. How had that come to be? How would an ethereal and a celestial being come to sit together under the stars?_

***

  
_Soho, that same night_

_Inside the Bentley_

_10:09 pm_

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale takes his time, and Crowley’s silence is deafening.

“I heard the South Downs are quite lovely in this season,” the angel says.

“The… South Downs?”

“Beautiful landscape, far enough from the city. We should be able to see the stars.”

Crowley’s glasses slip to the tip of his nose. His eyebrows shoot upwards, so surprised that they make his face look like an old mask carved out of marble.

“Wait. You want to have a picnic… in the South Downs? Now, in the middle of the night?”

“Didn’t you say _anywhere I wanted to go_?”

There’s a sharp inhale of breath, then a grin dawns on those sinful lips.

“Yes, angel. I did.”

***

_And that’ what lead them here. In this moment. Under the stars. Talking about Heaven, and a whole lifetime before the war that tore it apart._

_***_

_Devil’s Dyke, South Downs_

_11:48 am_

There they are, the angel and demon, a strange couple drinking Malbec and Brunello di Montacino under a clear night sky.

They are sitting on a blanket so thin it lets Aziraphale feel the shape of each blade of grass under his palm. They’ve had three glasses each so far, and the edges of the night blur pleasantly around them. They are giggling about this absurd psychedelic fashion: are they the only ones who remember when purple used to be made with murex shells, and blue with crushed lapis lazuli, and that this made colourful garments _bloody expensive?_ Probably yes, they are the only ones indeed; but that’s not the point. The point is… the point is… humans nowadays are going around wasting dyes like they meant absolutely _nothing_! That’s the point.

Deep black fabric used to be awfully expensive too, but Aziraphale only brings it up for the sake of precision.

Well, Crowley replies, proper tartan has come to cost an arm and a leg nowadays. Let alone the _specifically designed and produced in limited quantities_ kind of tartan the angel wears in a silk cravat around his neck right now.

At least they still know the value of good, dependable colours.

Someone has to.

Psychedelic, _ah._

As it often happens when they’re drunk and mindlessly elated, one memory bleeds into another, and they start reminiscing.

Do you remember how it was before that brilliant Galileo guy?

D’you mean, when the humans couldn’t tell Mars from a speck of sand in their eye?

No, no, Mars and Venus, they’ve always seen those by the naked eye. That Jupiter fellow, much more elusive.

Big yellow bugger, that one.

Funny, isn’t it? How humans would look at the stars and think stories about them. Trace pretty pictures by joining the dots.

Humans love stories, because they help them make sense of this mess. Give them meaning or something. Purpose, if they’re lucky enough to see the pattern and make a road out of it.

Some cultures think stars are souls of the dead ones; some think they are inhabited by demigods who have been shunned from Heaven. Time charts were born on those crumbs of Creation Light, prophecies were made on their movements and cycles. Humans, those clever bastards, have charted the sky with maps, so that they’d have a good plan to follow. All those faces, and stories, and directions are crammed up there, now, in the tapestry of the dark Firmament, sewn into the night like a myriad little promises to the future generations.

_No need to panic, lads. There is a guideline, see? Follow the stars, and you can’t go wrong._

“So, which ones are yours?”

Aziraphale lets the question fall gently between them: it settles on the cover between their stretched fingers. Silence rustles like grass at dusk, when the meadows are full of invisible creatures.

Was it wrong of him to ask? Maybe he should have conveniently pretended to have forgotten that conversation, when they got drunk together after the Crucifixion. The demon confessed he used to make stars before the Fall, back then; he didn’t elaborate further, and Aziraphale didn’t want to press. But he has never forgotten.

Just when the angel is about to click his wine-heavy tongue and change subject, the answer comes. Quiet, almost bashful. So endearing it hurts.

“ ‘s not like I made any of those on my own, you know?” Crowley says. “I was just like, an intern in the studio or something. Latest graphic designer they hired.”

“Hired?”

The demon still wears his glasses as he looks at the stars, head tipped upwards. The weight of his lithe body rests on one elbow, his free hand still holds the wine glass.

“Well, created. Doesn’t make much difference, though, does it? At the beginning, they always make you do the shitty work. Asteroids, the occasional meteor. Bit of ice and stardust here and there. I got to work on the tail of a comet for… ugh, well time didn’t exist back then, but by Judah’s beard, I could have slept for the equivalent of two centuries afterwards. It was my first big project, took bloody forever to finish. Still, just an intern. I made coffee for everyone and tried to bite my tongue when one of the _big guys_ had a lousy idea. Did mostly what I was told.”

The glass floats as Crowley speaks, the wine sloshing against its walls, leaving a red-stained patina behind. Aziraphale drinks every single word. Each one is a gift, he knows: they’ve rarely touched the subject of _before the Fall,_ and he’s grateful Crowley feels at ease enough to talk about it again _._ The way he holds the glass, now, is simply entrancing. Those large palms, those long fingers, spread enough to cradle the bowl – but gently, so gently the sight sends a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. One could hold something precious like that. A lover’s face. Someone’s heart. He’s sure Crowley would be equally delicate with those, and his fingertips would feel rather lovely.

“I admit I have trouble imagining you doing what you are told, dear.”

This earns him a scoff, but it’s mild. Affectionate. “Look at that, the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I don’t know that you mean. I’ve always been a perfect subordinate.” To a fault, but he doesn’t say that.

Crowley could hint at the thermos lying next to them, building a dam between their bodies that’s far bigger than the space it takes.

Instead, he smirks.

“As you say, Mr _I-gave-it-away._ ”

Aziraphale gives him a little, self-satisfied smile. Secretly, he’s proud of the whole flaming-sword business: it brought him several anxiety attacks over the millennia, including a devastatingly annoying heartburn that every now and then comes back to haunt him for weeks to end, putting him off his beloved food. But would he do it again? Over and over.

“I remember those days, you know,” he ventures softly. Maybe it’s the wine, but he’d rather blame it on the stars above. “I mean, before all the mess started. Before the War in Heaven, when the Host was still one. There were no enemies, back then. No sides.”

Crowley, next to him, doesn’t make a sound. Behind the black lenses, his eyes seem to be still lost in the stars.

This conversation would require more wine, maybe a more private place with escape routes for both of them. But it needs to be said, especially tonight. It’s a sore spot that needs to be assessed, before proceeding further.

“Right.”

Crowley’s reply strives to be noncommittal, and fails. The demon is about to run for the hills, and Aziraphale knows that if he doesn’t hurry and say it now he might lose his nerve, too. He can’t allow that to happen. They ran from this for far too long.

“Did you know I was a cadet with the Soldiers of the Light at the time? We were training a lot. I hadn’t the faintest idea what we were preparing for, but I’d been put there from the start, so I carried on with it. To tell you the truth, I was terribly clumsy, especially at first. But I just refused to yield. I thought: if She created me to be a warrior, then there has to be a warrior somewhere within me. I just have to look hard enough.” He wiggles inside the tight boundaries of his body, always too big, too soft to inhabit comfortably. “Well, I guess I’m still looking. It must be very well hidden.”

Crowley has abandoned the wine glass next to the thermos. There’s such a stark contrast between the two containers: one elegant, if a little tarnished; the other solid and homely. One containing an innocent sin, the other full of deadly holiness.

“I knew that. I mean… I knew that you were with the Soldiers of Light. I saw you training there, a couple of times.”

The sentence came out in a puff of air, and Aziraphale can’t help but snap his head to look at the demon sitting next to him.

“You… you did.”

“Yep.”

Crowley reaches for his sunglasses. He deposits them on his knees, looks down at them as if wondering why the Hell he just did _that_. Aziraphale’s heart plummets to the depths of his stomach, and then rises slowly, tentatively, as he looks at his companion.

Angels don’t know what hope tastes like; but if they did, Aziraphale is ready to bet it would be so very similar to this. A terrified, elated walk across the cliff, with no safety net underneath and the other side in sight.

“Might have been wandering around the training grounds during my lunch break. Quite often,” Crowley admits. 

“Whatever for?”

“Had my eyes on a hottie down there.”

“Oh. I see.”

More wine. Aziraphale needs it now, and takes the bottle, letting the content slosh like a waterfall in his empty glass. It’s not enough to cover Crowley’s words. They’ve never talked about this before, but now that the demon has started – now that he has let down all of his barriers, and the sunglasses lay on his knees like a toy in the lap of someone too grown-up to remember how to play – there is no stopping him. There is no stopping this conversation from happening.

“He was something else, that one. Fucking resplendent if you ask me.”

Crowley’s voice is smoke and is cream; it’s caramel, melted to perfection yet still bearing the slightest hint of burnt. Aziraphale wants it in his mouth. Wants to savour him like the finest dessert. But the demon doesn’t look up, doesn’t edge any closer. He’s lost in the memory of his long-lost-crush, and what if, for a bizarre and cruel coincidence, it’s someone else he’s speaking about?

The angel takes a mouthful of wine, swallows eagerly, pushes it down with the lump in his throat.

“This chum of yours… he sounds great.”

“He is.”

“Was he… ah… a good warrior, I presume?”

What felt like hope a minute ago is fading, now, leaving his bones cold and his flesh heavier. The demon shudders, slumps forward a bit. 

“Not the way _they_ wanted him to be, but he was naturally strong, and quite stubborn as well. Once, well, he was practicing with a partner, and the other guy was being awful, a real prick you know, taunting and sneering the whole time. My angel, he was worried, so worried that his technique wasn’t as perfect as he wanted it to be... in the end, he focused so hard that he put a little too much strength in the last blow and hit his partner on the helmet, full force. It sounded like a _fucking bell_ , and it was _glorious._ The prick fell on his arse and couldn’t stand until they pulled him up. I almost dropped my sandwich and clapped.”

The prick in question had been Sandalphon, who, after the incident, had a ring in his ears for… well, there were no days back then, but the not-yet-Archangel has never forgiven Aziraphale for the training accident.

And now that the confirmation is here, as a bridge and a boulder between them, Aziraphale finds he’s more scared than ever. He wants to speak, but barely finds the strength for a feeble smile.

_He sounds like a disaster, this angel of yours._

_One who’d take one hundred and five years to give you proof that he trusts you and wants you safe from Heaven and Hell._

_One who is still too_ fucking _afraid to lean closer and take your hand._

Aziraphale feels his mouth twitching as he nurses the wine. “If you really… well… If you _liked_ this person so much, why didn’t you say something, back then?”

The demon scoffs, but there’s the hint of a sigh lurking there.

“What for? He never noticed me anyway. And I can see why. I mean, one like him wouldn’t mingle with the likes of _me._ ”

Aziraphale can’t help but frown. This is utter nonsense.

“What makes you think that he never noticed you?”

“Well, I met him again sometime after… you know.” Crowley makes a wide gesture from the top of his head to his toes. “Worked up the courage to slither by his side and start a conversation, said the first foolish thing that popped up in my head… for the life of me, I can’t recall what it was.” At this, the demon grins. There is bitterness in his voice. “He acted like he saw me for the first time. Even asked my name.”

“Maybe he didn’t know how you changed it, after the Fall. Maybe he was worried he might have offended you if he used the old one or mentioned the past.”

Aziraphale’s hand is shaking around his glass. Thank God there isn’t enough wine in it to spill, but he feels the thin wall creak under his grasp. Something fierce is mounting in his chest, and it’s a wave he cannot stop; one that, he knows, could destroy him if he lets it crush to shore.

“Maybe he was watching you, too, back in Heaven. When you weren’t looking. Maybe he thinks that _you_ were the resplendent one. And still are.”

“Angel…”

A gentle hand covers Aziraphale’s, and he has to let go of the glass, now. He has to see Crowley’s eyes, or he might explode.

And there they are. Twin moons in a summer night. Gold leaves on the painting of this perfect face, this beautiful expression that looks half lost and half found. Crowley is on the brink of breaking. Or taking flight.

Aziraphale swallows one last time. His voice comes out low and thick with need.

“Maybe he has never stopped looking at you since.”

It’s Crowley who moves first. The delicate brush of his lips – warm like embers, warm like home - is enough to short-circuit the angel’s system, transforming his fine brain in a lump of bubbling mess. He grasps the demon’s lapels as he loses himself in the softness of his mouth. Where the heck is the glass now? Maybe they’re tipping it over as Crowley leans forward and, simultaneously, Aziraphale lays down on the tartan rug, dragging the demon with him.

They don’t break the kiss, hanging on to each other for dear life. As the angel nibbles on that delicious lower lip, reveling in the meat of it, worshipping at the gates and begging for access, it dawns on him that Crowley’s body is shielding him from the sky. It’s a vault sheltering Aziraphale from the judgment of the Great Above.

He knows they could be seen, right now, and dread gathers at the pit of his stomach. It’s reckless, to kiss right here in the open. It’s pure madness. But if he lets go of Crowley now, he will never find the courage to hold him like this, ever again.

Any coherent thought scatters in a thousand shards as Crowley licks his way into his mouth, and Aziraphale’s tongue reaches out to meet him, joyous and welcoming and oh, so indulgent. The demon’s leg is flush against his side, deft hands sink in his hair, and this moment is glorious, this moment is _everything_ he’s ever longed for and more. In this precious strip of time, Aziraphale doesn’t feel lonely, and doesn’t feel hollow. He is bold, and strong, and he has found his purpose. After six thousand years, he’s found a reason to become the warrior he was always meant to be.

Then comes the thud.

A sudden rush of terror jolts through the angel’s body and makes him freeze on the spot.

“Crowley! The…”

“Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck…_ sorry, I didn’t…”

“ _For the love of God, move away!”_

It’s the Holy Water.

The content of the thermos hasn’t spilled, thank Goodness; Aziraphale has screwed the cap too tightly for that to happen. But the blessed thing rolled on the rug and now it is pressed between their sides, a deadly reminder of all that’s at stake tonight.

There’s a gap between their bodies now, where the thermos fell.

At the first hint of what was happening, Aziraphale shoved Crowley back, to get him away from the danger.

Now the angel’s hand lingers in the empty space between them, and trembles, and desperately wants to take it all back to a few seconds ago, when it had found a place to hold on to.

He looks into his lover’s eyes and finds something broken behind them.

Could Crowley have thought…

But surely, he must understand. Aziraphale was _worried._ For him! He can’t possibly think otherwise, after all they have just shared, after all the ache and misery it took him to finally meet in the middle.

Crowley grumbles something unintelligible – it could have been an apology or a curse to Heaven - and stands up. Aziraphale follows, tries to stop him as he walks towards the Bentley.

“Wait. Dearest, _please._ ”

Crowley’s shoulders are hunched. Defensive. He doesn’t turn around. “Listen, it’s clearly not the place nor the time. I shouldn’t have… Better if I give you some space, angel. You need to think this through.”

Time? Is that what Crowley wants to give him? _Fucking time?_ After what they just confessed. After Aziraphale has taken the most difficult step of his life. After he has pushed past his loyalties, because he loves this moody dramatic demon more than anything in the world and beyond.

There’s music coming out of the Bentley. It’s a metallic bumbling, the strum of a guitar, the sudden ring of a trumpet. The lyrics are lost on him right now.

“And what more is there to think about, Crowley?” Aziraphale doesn’t remember the last time words flew out of him with such fervour, he can’t seem to rein them in anymore, “Everything is on the table. Things are the way they are for us, right now, and they’re not going to change anytime soon.”

“No, they’re not.”

Crowley opens the door of the Bentley, and the music comes out louder. Does he intend to drive away without the thermos? Without his glasses? Without Aziraphale by his side?

God, the demon’s eyes are so vulnerable right now. Like a leaf in autumn that you can ruin between your fingers.

“It was…”

_Don’t say it. Don’t say it was a mistake, please, I can’t take it right now. Not when I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve like this. I always tuck it away, keep it in my pocket, store it under many layers so it won’t get hurt. Don’t do this, please. I’m not brave enough to watch you go._

And then, when Aziraphale is sure Crowley is about to bring the axe down on this night, the Bentley sings _louder._ So much, that it’s impossible not to understand the words this time.

_  
I'm a man, can't you see what I am?  
I live and I breathe for you  
But what good does it do_

_If I ain't got you?_

_If I ain't got you?_

Crowley grumbles, his face blushing dark red under the starlight. “Shut up,” he says. In response, the singer croons with even more feeling.

_You don't know what it's like  
Baby, you don't know what it's like  
To love somebody  
To love somebody  
The way I love you…_

“That’s it, you little traitor, I’m done with your bullshit!” Crowley brings his fist on the car’s sleek bonnet, and admittedly the blow is not as violent as it promised to be. Still, the Bentley seems to take the shove quite personally, for it boasts as loudly as the radio system allows:

_  
All you need is love  
All you need is love _

_All you need is love, love!  
Love is all you need. _

Crowley looks flabbergasted and deflated at the same time. Aziraphale can’t help but smile.

“I think your car might be onto something here.”

“It’s not as easy as she makes it. You know it’s not.”

“We’ll work harder then. We’ve been basically slacking off at our jobs in the past millennium, I’m sure we’re rested enough to tackle something a bit more complicated.”

“Complicated, you say,” snorts Crowley, but Aziraphale sees the flicker on his face, the softer edges around his mouth. “Dangerous’s the right word here, angel. Deadly comes to mind, too.”

“But worth it.” He steps forwards and gently takes Crowley’s wrist. “Like nothing else ever was.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” the demon whispers.

Again, Aziraphale feels that yearning need to protect Crowley, to raise a sword he doesn’t own anymore and shield him from all harm.

_I don’t want you to get hurt either. That’s why I’ve always pushed you away. But not anymore... Now that I had a taste of you, I can’t let go._

“You’ll look after me, dear” He tilts the demon’s chin, smiles as softly as he knows how. “You always do.”

Crowley grins. It’s a shy thing, and Aziraphale _wants him,_ God help him, in every possible way, with each and every part of himself.

“’Sssss a bloody fulltime job, that.”

“Only because you’re never close enough.”

When he hears the demon’s pulse quicken against his fingertips, Aziraphale pulls him in for another kiss. It’s still sweet, but there’s an electric flutter between them now, warming up their bodies where they’re pressed together. A whole horizon is open before them, and for the first time it’s within their reach. Aziraphale has to steady his trembling hands on his lover’s shoulders, as he slowly parts from that intoxicating mouth.

“Bring me to your place, darling.”

Crowley’s breath is warm against his skin. “Are you sure, angel?”

“You said anywhere I wanted to go.”

“There is still… that.” Crowley hesitates, before gesturing at the thermos spread on the rug. “And everything else.”

Aziraphale brushes the edge of Crowley’s black turtleneck with delicate fingertips. The swell on the demon’s throat looks like a forbidden fruit up for the taking.

He traces its shape with his lips, hears the hitch in Crowley’s breathing.

“We’ll sort it out, darling. Together. There’s so much we need to talk about, don’t you think?”

They hold each other for a moment. The night is wrapped around them, the Bentley keeps singing about happy love, and Aziraphale is sure that somewhere in their heart the stars still hold affection for their architect, just enough to hide them from the prying gaze of Heaven for a little while.

Crowley sighs against the angel’ss temple, and Aziraphale knows this temptation is accomplished.

“Alright. Let’s go, angel.”

They clean up the fallen glasses and spilled wine, fold the rug and put it in the trunk. The thermos rests on Aziraphale’s knees as they drive back to London at frenzied speed – yet, the angel doesn’t feel afraid, not anymore. The Bentley gently hums as she rolls them back to Mayfair:

_I can't see me loving_

_Nobody but you_

_For all my life!_

_When you're with me, baby,_

_The skies will be blue_

_For all my life…  
  
_

_*_

_And then there’s the moment when it all could have changed, setting the events in motion. That precious fracture in the universe that we can fill with our choices, to build a bridge towards all of our tomorrows._

_For Aziraphale and Crowley, that moment happened two hours prior their conversation under the stars. In the backroad behind a shady pub. In a car we know well, who, sadly, could do little to push them one way or the other that time._

_It was all in the hands of the angel._

_And he made his choice._

_*_

_Soho, outside the Dirty Donkey pub_

_10:47 pm_

Aziraphale has fiddled with the thermos for the whole day, checked it, screwed the top multiple times, dried the whole bottle up with a series of towels that he has subsequently proceeded to burn. Just in case. One never really knows, with something as powerful as holy water. Better not to take chances.

He decided to change his usual bowtie for a silk cravat, skilfully wound and puffed the way his tailor has shown him. His neck feels suddenly exposed, but it’s the fashion, apparently. It does look fetching, he reasons. Maybe, this way, it will be easier to breathe. Say the words he must say.

When the time finally arrives, he miracles himself inside the Bentley, with that tinkle that always accompanies the surges of his angelic power. Crowley looks at him like he’s the Pope come to bless his car and send it up in flames.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need a word with you.”

“What?”

“I work in Soho. I hear things.”

There’s a few more words, words he’s rehearsed and yet barely manages to let out of his throat. His eyes feel glassy, pulsing with all he doesn’t say, and he wonders what Crowley will see through them. If he’ll understand what Aziraphale can’t yet mention.

Once the angel hands him the thermos, the demon’s face changes. Relaxes. It reminds Aziraphale of a day they shared in Rome, in front of a plate of oysters. He can only describe it as ice thawing under the spring sun, and he shouldn’t feel this happy at the sight, but he does. He _does._

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.”

Crowley’s brows furrow. Aziraphale fights the urge to chew on the inside of his own cheek.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

Of course, Crowley doesn’t give in. Tempting is his business, after all, and he’s a fine salesman indeed. But there’s something softer than usual in his voice tonight. Something, behind the persuasive tone, that rings true. Hopeful, almost.

Can demons hope? Because angels can’t. It would imply they feel uncertainty, and as God’s messengers they’re built for nothing like that.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

There’s a thousand ways Aziraphale could answer this. A thousand and one if he includes what he really, really wants to reply.

He lingers for a fraction of a second on each of them, dwells inside the futures they’d open, and makes a home for his heart in there. All of them sound an awful lot like _yes. Anywhere._

_Take me anywhere, let’s go, don’t look back. Or above. Or below. Let’s drive away, leave Earth behind, let’s have that picnic but through the stars. Tell me about them. You used to make them, right? I want to know, tell me again, tell me more. Trace the road for us between the constellations and I will follow, no matter the consequences. Look at what I brought for you tonight. Can’t you see? I’d follow you to the end of time._

But there are swords hanging on their necks. There are powers to answer to, and no matter how fast the Bently can run, those powers will catch up with them. There is no possible future where they won’t.

Aziraphale thinks about a long time ago, before Earth was created and Time itself didn’t exist. He thinks about the training grounds in Heaven, and his frustrated practice, and the weight of the wooden sword – not long after, he’d receive a flaming one, but this is _before._ No war yet. No sides. No enemies.

He thinks about a redhead angel sitting by the training field, having his lunch and apparently thinking of his own business, not minding the cadets at all. But the weight of his eyes stays on Aziraphale’s skin as the cloud-haired angel trains and pretends so hard he didn’t notice.

How he wishes he had met Crowley’s gaze, back then. Wishes he could tell if the redhead’s eyes were brown and deep, or clear as a crystal, or already golden as they look now.

The Bentley sings softly, a song that repeats the word _love_ a sickening number of times. The angel feels dizzy with it, and his heart is about to explode.

He opens his mouth. The thin tartan cravat almost chokes him as he says:

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

There are moments – splits of seconds really; there are choices we have to make within their span. Turn left, turn right, don’t turn at all and crash right against that tree. There’s the world to gain. There’s the world to lose. But even an angel can’t see further than the next step he takes.

Tonight, Aziraphale doesn’t fully understand what he’s lost (he feels it though, like a missing limb, the ghost pain of a future that was cut off his soul), but he knows what he’s trying to protect.

And that, for now, has to be enough.

The Bentley has long disappeared around the corner when he finds it in himself to move away from the backdoor of the Dirty Donkey, his hands uncharacteristically stuck in his pockets. The precious cream overcoat will be all rumpled, tomorrow. He has kept it in pristine conditions for over one hundred and thirty years, and now he finds he doesn’t care anymore. He wants to mope, leave the shoes in disarray on the carpet, curl up with a favourite Georgette Hayer book and cry on the most beloved passages, feeling sorry for himself, drowning in cocoa until the sun comes up. He won’t be able to touch a drop of wine. It would remind him of Crowley, and that place under his ribs would hurt like a thousand angry demons…

A thousand, really? No need for such excesses. One sad demon is enough to make him bleed.

But as he walks through the neon lights –too many blasted colours, _nobody in this day and age has any respect for colours anymore,_ and they are drowning the stars _–,_ he hears the call of a distant radio.

It’s ridiculous, because he never listens to the modern bebop, but somehow he’s sure he knows this song. If he slept at all, he’d think he heard it in a dream.

_I can't see me loving_

_Nobody but you_

_For all my life_

_When you're with me, baby,_

_The skies will be blue_

_For all my life…  
  
_

And somehow Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, persuades himself that his foul fiend is listening to the same song, and dreaming of a better day, when they skies above them will be blue once again, and no one will scowl at a demon and an angel having a picnic under the stars.

Who knows if demons can hope. They certainly sleep, so there’s the chance at least.

Angels don’t hope. They _believe_.

And that will have to do.

_Heaven_

_Soldiers of Light training grounds_

_Before time and space_

It’s after the training, when the golden veins that cross his chest and arms feel tingly and thick with exhaustion. This corporation can’t take a little movement that its outer boundaries –skin, it’s called skin, he should remember this, it was part of the refresher course– seem to excrete a thin sheen of liquid. The sensation is not at all pleasant.

Aziraphale is catching his breath, another very inconvenient accessory of this human form, when Uriel approaches him. The other angel didn’t break a sweat.

“Still adjusting to the bodily functions?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s tickety-boo.”

( _yes, there’s a direct translation for tickety-boo in Enochian. Aziraphale hasn’t spoken the language in a long time, but give him a couple of months to research and he will tell you exactly what it sounds like.)_

“You can miracle it all away, you know. There’s a way to prevent it, it’s all about self-regulating really.”

“Great to know. I will definitely look into that, thank you.”

Somehow, the conversation drags. Aziraphale isn’t great at interaction, he never knows what to do with his hands: so, he decided to collect the training swords while Uriel follows him around. They seem to have a specific topic in mind.

Angling their body towards Aziraphale, Uriel nods in the direction of a certain angel sitting beyond the gate. The new fellow seems to be very busy watching the everlasting movements of the Celestial Spheres.

This stranger is fascinating to say the least. High cheekbones, noble nose, strong jaw. Fiery hair that certainly refuses to be ignored, and a pair of wings unlike any other the Principality has ever seen, elegant in shape and pitch black in colour. Aziraphale tries to catch his eyes from the distance, and fails to see them clearly.

“That one,” says Uriel. “I think he’s from the Design department, but he keeps coming here every day at lunchtime.”

There is no time, as we said, but there is a rough equivalent to what will later be known as _day_. For angels, it’s just a cycle of scheduled collective activities, all compulsory obviously, to set work in motion.

And at every scheduled lunch time, the redhead sits just outside the training grounds, quietly eating on his own while he enjoys the view. 

Aziraphale shrugs and picks up another sword. “Well, it’s a lovely spot to have lunch.”

“He only comes when your group is training.”

“What a coincidence.”

Uriel looks at him as if he were too dense for this conversation. Aziraphale just smiles. They want to be helpful, and it’s very nice of them. Always so attentive, dear Uriel.

If there’s another thing Uriel is, that’s persistent. They really know how to press a point.

“I’ve chatted with a few of his lot – not really my kind of company, but that guy is ok I guess. Good fun, has a sense of humour. I think his name is…”

“I know,” Aziraphale replies.

“You do?”

“Yes. I asked Michael.”

“So,” Uriel open their arms, with a huff of impatience, “what are you going to do about this?”

By now, the Principality has an armful of wooden swords and a smile on his lips. “I am not sure. But I have a good feeling about this.”

“A _feeling?_ What would that be?”

He’s not sure how to define it. Settles on: “It’s a bit like a belief, I suppose. But more ineffable. It’s like, I don’t know, a quiet certainty that things will turn out just fine in the end.”

“So you are going to do _nothing_.”

“Not for now, no.”

Uriel sighs. They look like they’re giving up on Aziraphale entirely.

“Suit yourself. Seems like a pity, though. He’s been there a long time.”

The Principality knows exactly how long.

Sometime after the conversation ends, Uriel has moved on to the more satisfying matter of organizing the next training schedule, and Aziraphale has successfully collected and put away all the wooden swords left on the field. He looks at the corner of his eye: the redhead is still there, but he’s standing up now, ready to leave.

Lunchtime is over. This is Aziraphale’s favourite moment of the ritual, because the redhead will turn his back to him now, and this means the Principality can finally steal an open glance, watch the other angel’s swinging gait as he walks away, and smile about it like the smitten fool he is.

One day, they’ll talk. It might feel a bit awkward at first, but the redhead will say something funny first, and then something kind, and Aziraphale will relax in his company as if he’d known him forever. They might watch the Nine Spheres revolve for a while, side by side; if the light is too strong, the Principality could raise a wing to shelter his new friend, so that his beautiful black feathers won’t have to get too warm in the heat. Maybe, the redhead angel will smile at him, and Aziraphale will feel like - well, like he’s in Heaven. 

Not yet, though.

He proceeds towards the barracks, knowing that the redhead will turn any moment now, to look back at him one last time. Aziraphale is always aware of his gaze on him. He could turn around too, and let their eyes meet, and share a smile with his admirer. At the next scheduled training, introductions could be made.

But if they met each other properly, the other angel could soon get bored of him.

After all, he’s nothing compared to Gabriel, to Michael: those are the angels who will go the distance, those are the ones to admire. After chatting for a while, his new friend would immediately see that, and Aziraphale… well, he’s not sure how to express this in a satisfying way, having inhabited this finite body for such a short time… but he’s somehow positive that, if that happened, a part of him would go missing forever, leaving a cold, empty space in the middle of his chest.

So he decides to linger in the fantasy instead. Just for a little longer. Until he learns how to be a warrior, how to be brave enough.

There is a melody in the air, the faint trail of a song he’s never heard from the Heavenly Choirs. In all fairness, the beat is off, slightly dragged if anything, and the pitch feels all wrong for a song of praise. Still, it resounds through the infinite trails of Celestial Light as Aziraphale walks away. The soft hum accompanies his movements, and soon he finds himself humming along.

_Imagine me and you, I do  
I think about you day and night  
It's only right  
To think about the one you love  
And hold them tight  
So happy together _

The words sound funny, too, but he’s no one to judge the way the Lord wants to be praised.

So he sings along, sure that She is blessing this _feeling_ thing and will guide him along the way.

After all, this soft song echoing through the whole Nine Spheres surely must be a sign that something good will happen.

If not now, one day.

_I can't see me loving_

_Nobody but you_

_For all my life_

_When you're with me, baby,_

_The skies will be blue_

_For all my life…_  
  


**_The end._ **


End file.
